Of Coffee and Killers
by bernaisbeast
Summary: "Kill me," they said. "I'm already dead." He was taunting him, Craig realized. Tweek Tweak, the heir of the Tweak Bros. franchise, was taunting Craig Tucker, the assassin sent to kill him. He wanted to die, and that seemed to confuse him. And suddenly, Craig's job seemed so much harder than before. / / In which coffee and killers don't quite go together. South Park AU (HIATUS!)
1. Prologue

He didn't exactly ask to do this; in fact, he was very aware that he could've been anything he wanted to be. He was quite talented with the camera and could've gotten into the filming industry if he really tried. He wasn't a bad cook either. The man could've been sitting at home right now, watching the TV as his wife tended to dinner in the kitchen, and the two kids he would've had would be playing in the backyard. He could've lived a perfect normal life if he wanted to, if he just tried, but instead he took the route that led him to the family business.

Instead, he took up killing people as a profession, only because his father saw how great of a potential he held in him. Empathy didn't exist in his vocabulary as he pulled triggers on guns or felt the blood of a stranger's spotting his clothes and face, and he never asked questions. He did what he was told and killed who he had to, and got paid a large reward in the end. That's what made him the best of his trade: his emotionless state of mind. He was the best in the business, and anyone who said otherwise was dead in a heartbeat.

As he stood above the freshly made corpse, watching the blood seep out from the open-neck wound he created, his mind wandered yet again about how he could've grown up to be anything else but an assassin. It was a matter of which he couldn't stop pondering over these last few missions of his, and it didn't seem to help that these thoughts came to him after he had just murdered a man. Especially now of all times as it was probably the most vital assignment he was ever given.

It was a simple enough request. Same as many others he was given. He was to attend a small, private party and murder everyone there, but his main mission was to kill the heir to a highly successful business that was booming across the country. His boss held nothing but hatred for them, but the reasons were unknown to the assassin.

"_Kill them all," _he recalled Mr. Theodore Cartman tell him the day of his assignment. _"I want the heir dead, but kill the rest too. Don't leave anyone surviving."_ He simply replied with a nod and signed his contract, being a man of few words, at least to him.

He surveyed the room he was in, eyes roaming over the few bloodied bodies that littered the place. There weren't many in attendance, being a private party and all. Maybe about thirty to fifty people were now deceased, all acquaintances or colleagues of the Tweak family. There were women, too. Beautiful ones that Craig Tucker would've had the pleasure to sleep with. Even a few men caught his eyes. But he knew that in the business he was in, he couldn't get romantically involved with anybody. The risks were too high, and at some point he'd have to kill them too.

He's done it countless times before. And he could do it again because they were never really _lovers_, none of them are. They're just sex and he knows it and he states it. But they fall in love with him anyways, unknowing of the consequences that lay ahead for them.

Craig Tucker doesn't love.

He stepped over the body at his feet, landing in a small pool of blood, though Craig didn't care. He didn't even flinch at the sight of it. That was one thing about being an assassin; after about your tenth kill, you stopped caring. The people you murder eventual blur together, becoming a simple memory stored in the back of your mind. You didn't think twice about it anymore and for Craig, he didn't give a damn from the start. He got paid and that was all that really mattered to him.

Or, it did anyways.

He continued walking around the people that lay around him, carefully maneuvering through the maze of blood and bodies as his footprints left a bloody trail behind him. _There's one more,_ he thought to himself. _I still have to kill _him. _But where the hell is he hiding?_

A sniffle from the corner of the room caught his attention.

_Bingo._

Craig slowly made his way over to the source of the crying, stopping only to pull out his dagger from a fallen body's back. The blood was still fresh and dripped crimson off the blade. He looked at it and then to the corner of the room.

A small fold-out table had been covered with a long, green cloth and was once decorated with food and drinks. Now, chips and baby carrots were haphazardly spilled atop it, and a punch bowl had been tipped over during the chaos, creating a bright red stain on the carpet below. The fruity aroma emitting from the stain mixed with the strong scent of copper and metal around the room, and the assassin crinkled his nose in distaste. Near it, Craig spotted brown dress shoes quivering underneath the table cloth. He gave a malicious smirk and stepped closer.

"Hey there, you don't have to be afraid," Craig cooed in a sickeningly sweet voice. "This won't hurt a bit." He heard a small whimper from the hidden man and silently chuckled. As he came closer, all that could be heard were his heavy boots pounding against the carpeted floor and the few sniffles and whimpers from the other.

When he stepped right in front of the shaking shoes, the man stopped moving, taking a sudden intake of breathe, and all was quiet. Suddenly, Craig flipped the table over, and the punch bowl and food flew through the air before crashing into the ground, the table breaking in half at contact. He heard a small shriek from below him and focused his cold grey eyes on the quivering form underneath. Big, almond orbs stared at him right back. Craig smiled even wider.

"Tweek Tweak. A pleasure,"

The blonde in question just glared at him through glassy eyes. He was on the verge of tears, and if Craig was someone else, he would've felt guilty for what he was going to do to him. But no, he was an assassin, and assassins don't feel guilty; they never do, he never did. Even as he trembled at the sight of the heir, he knew that wasn't from guilt. Excitement, maybe, but not guilt.

"Wish I could say the same to you," Tweek spat back at him. He was trembling and his hands were wound up in his messy, blonde locks. But as frightened at he looked to be, Craig saw something in his eyes, something behind the unfallen tears of this poor boy he was just about to murder.

_Kill me_, they said. _I'm already dead._

He was taunting him, Craig realized. Tweek Tweak, the heir of the Tweak Bros. franchise, was _taunting _Craig Tucker, the assassin sent to kill him. He _wanted_ to die, and that seemed to confuse him.

And suddenly, Craig's job seemed so much harder than before.

Maybe it was the fact that he was delaying or maybe it was just because the fucker _wanted_ to die that caused Craig's anger to unexpectedly flare up, but whatever it was, the next instant, the heir suddenly found himself flung up against the wall, his killer's face near his own and a knife held against his throat. A strong hand was clutching at his shoulder, keeping him grounded to the surface. His breathing eradicated as he struggled out of the other's grip.

Craig bent his face forward, leaning towards Tweek's ear, and let out a warm shallow breath. He felt the blonde shudder beneath him, causing a small smile to break out across his face. "Don't worry," he whispered. "I'll make this quick." He could practically hear the other's heart beat suddenly speed up and finally saw the tears roll down his face. He leaned back a little to take a look and saw his eyes were shut tight.

He was finally crying. It was a quiet sob, the one where you don't make a sound but your heavy breathing, but he was crying nonetheless, and Craig knew that he had given up. _Not like he had put up much of a fight anyways,_ he thought to himself. The assassin almost pitied him.

Almost.

_Whatever. Time to kill this fucker._

Craig's grip tightened on his shoulder, pinning him even harder against the wall as he pushed the blade closer to his neck. Just one swipe and he'd be bleeding out of his windpipe, dying from the cut-off of oxygen and blood loss. Just one swipe…

But he couldn't do it. A second passed in silence, and then a few more, when Craig found himself not being able to slice the blade across the blonde's fair skin. It could've been done quickly, fast, and (maybe) painless. But no, the assassin was hesitating, something he's never done before.

"Fuck," he muttered to himself. Frustrated, Craig pulled his arm back and stabbed the space near Tweek's head, eliciting a shriek from him. His eyes were still closed and tears continued to stream down his face. His stomach suddenly clenched at the sight as something churned inside of him, but the assassin pushed it aside.

Reaching for the side of his belt, Craig pulled out his revolver from its holder and cocked it before placing it on the side of the heir's forehead, hoping that the gun would help urge him on, help kill him. But again, he couldn't seem to pull the trigger.

Why couldn't he kill this guy?

It finally dawned on him as he stared at the quivering guy in his hand that he didn't _want_ to kill this guy. That he didn't _want_ to be killing _anyone_ anymore. He didn't want to be some guy's pawn in murdering others.

He wanted out. And he thought that this snobby, blonde rich kid could help him with that.

With that realization, he instead hit Tweek's head hard enough let him fall unconscious to the ground. Pocketing his gun, he hefted the blonde over his shoulder, surprised to find out how light the guy was. With one hand holding the heir, he grabbed a walkie-talkie from his belt and spoke into it, running towards an exit as he did.

"Test, Tucker here. Bring in the car, and let Donovan know he can detonate the bomb now," He shifted the man on his shoulder to a more comfortable position before speaking again, this time with a sort of amusement laced in his tone.

"And I've got a little… _Surprise_ for you."

* * *

**A/N: ****Just wanted to say that this is my first South Park fic, so any constructive criticism is welcome! And I want to give a big ol' thanks to my lovely Clyde, risashootingstar c: Thanks for helping me with edits love! Next chapter so far has quite a bit of dialogue, so I'm gonna need a little help with that too, aha.**

**This was inspired by an old fic I was rereading. Ah, Craig.~**


	2. Chapter 1

He knew something was wrong the minute he opened his eyes. He doesn't remember falling asleep. Heck, he hardly sleeps at all.

_What… What the fuck? _

Dazed and confused, Tweek Tweak sat up with his head pounding against his skull and surveyed the room he was in, taking in just how… well, _bland _everything was. The walls were colored with light beige and the few objects that occupied the room were of neutral colors, mostly black or white. Only the currently closed curtains were of a shade of dark blue, and it hid away the true form of the sun. Seeing as there was no clock in the room, Tweek hadn't an idea of the time.

The blonde, attempting to get the sleep out of his system, stretched his arms above his head and yawned. "Jesus Christ, where am I?" he muttered, lazily scratching at the back of his neck. He winced as his brain thudded against his skull and groaned. "Ugh, what happened last night?" He closed his eyes again, contemplating on going back to sleep and ignoring this strange situation he found himself in, hoping he could pass it off as an odd dream. A sudden shiver raked through his body, and it was only then did he snap his eyes open in realization.

He was shirtless. No, wait, scratch that. He was _clothes-less_.

A shriek escaped his lips as, all at once, images from last night (or what he believed was last night) started coming back to him.

There was a party, in honor of him of course. His father had announced just a week before that when he was to pass, Tweek was in charge of the whole business. No surprise there, yet they still decided to celebrate it. Typical. People were talking to him, congratulating him, or at least trying to as he avoided conversing at all costs. He was never one for social encounters. How he survives all this attention, he has no idea. Then… What had happened?

Then the murder happened. That's it. He had watched helplessly under a table as his so called "friends" dropped dead in front of his very eyes. He remembered one of them who had fallen, a person whose name never really mattered; he fell and locked eyes with him. They were pleading, begging him to save him, but Tweek had just stared at him with a blank look in his eyes and not a hint of regret.

He didn't care that they all died, not really. He didn't know them anyways. They weren't his friends; they had all only befriended him for the fame, for promotions, for money. They had always _used_ him, but Tweek couldn't say no. No, he had to keep up with his false smiles and befriend all those who came his way, at least those with money, for the sake of their business. At least, that's what his parents had always told him. He was glad to have been ridden of them all. They were all just meaningless faces to him. He had very few _real_ friends, but they were among the "common people" as his parents had termed those less fortunate than them, and they never approved of them. Not since their business boomed.

Tweek was now very grateful they weren't invited to his party.

And then there was that _guy_, Tweek remembered. He was the last image he recalled before everything had blacked out on him: the face of his murderer, his hair a stark black and his eyes a piercing grey. He saw through those grey slates of his and could practically see the lives he had taken away, all those he killed. But it wasn't _his_ killer, he thought to himself, for he was still very much alive.

…

Why was he still alive?

…

And why was he naked in a stranger's bed? Oh, god, had he been _raped_? Is that what had happened? Did his confronter knock him out in order to molest him? Tweek's hands shot to tangle in his hair as he began pondering over the idea of having just been sexually assaulted and then left alone. Was he going to murder him now that he had finished getting what he wanted? The possibility didn't sit too well with him.

"Do you always freak out like this?"

Tweek almost yelped in surprise at the sudden sound of another voice. A very _deep_ voice he speculated. With all his dramatic worrying he had been doing, he failed to notice the door to the right of him open, revealing his supposed rapist… Shirtless. He was leaning against the doorframe, a single bushy eyebrow raised in amusement as he stared at him, his mouth almost quirking up in the corner. Tweek just paused amidst his panicking and shot him a glare.

"Do you always rape your victims before murdering them?" he snapped back. He quickly scrambled out of the bed, taking the blanket with him to wrap around his exposed body. He made sure to keep his distance from the man, the bed being the barrier between him and the stranger. If he was to get killed, might as well put it off as long as possible, he figured.

The look of amusement on the assassin's face turned to one of confusion, his brows furrowing together. "Rape? Wait… You think I _raped_ you while you were knocked out?" He snorted as if such an idea was just absurd in its sense, and Tweek was slightly offended. What? Was he not attractive enough to even have sex with? His glare intensified as the man continued. "Why the hell would you think that?"

The blonde practically snarled in response. "Oh, I don't _know_, maybe because of the fact that you knocked me out and I wake up _naked_ in what I'm guessing is your bed and the first thing I'm greeted with is a _shirtless dude_. What the fuck else am I supposed to think?"

"You're not naked."

"… What?"

He pointed his finger at him, the white blanket still wrapped around his entire body, encompassing his small frame. "You're not naked," he repeated. "I didn't take your boxers."

His eyebrow rose suspiciously. Slowly, Tweek unraveled the white sheet and looked down. Sure enough, his green boxer-briefs were still snug around his waist, having never been removed in the first place. "Then where the hell are the rest of my clothes?" he asked, eyes snapping back to him. The corner of the man's lips turned up in the slightest.

"My washing machine. You sort of smelled, and I didn't want that smell in my bed."

"Hey!"

He shrugged. "You asked. Plus, I figured you'd probably want to clean up a bit before we talk."

"Whoa, whoa, wait." Tweek took a step back, his hands still fisted around the blanket as he held them up. He realized he was just exposing himself more as he felt the assassin's eyes drift across his body and he quickly wrapped the sheets around him again, shooting him another glare. "What talk? I thought this was the part where you were going to murder me with an axe or knife or something. In no movie have I seen the murderer actually _talk_ to his victim beforehand." His voice came out abnormally high for a man his age, almost as if he never completely underwent through puberty, and he hoped he didn't sound as scared as he really felt.

This time the smile was evident on the other man's face, forming two dimples on the corners of his cheeks. Tweek thought it all looked a bit out of place, not quite fitting his hardened features. "Change of plans," he spoke, voice sultry and full of amusement. He stuffed one hand into his pocket and leaned off of the doorframe, gesturing to another closed door to the left of him. "Shower's right through there. I got some blood on your hair, so you should probably wash that out." Tweek's eyes widened in sudden horror, and he opened his mouth to reply before he was cut off.

"Meet me in the living room when you're done. We have much to… _Discuss_." And with that, the assassin swiftly turned around and walked out, shutting the door behind him, leaving Tweek to stare at his only exit in confusion and annoyance. After a moment of silence, he finally spoke.

"Why the hell couldn't he just kill me?"

* * *

There was blood in his hair, much to Tweek's dismay, and he physically cringed upon seeing himself in the mirror. He was used to being more kempt, keeping up appearances for meetings and parties or interviews with his parents. Even his hair, which was always such a pain to tame, was at least usually held back with some form of gel. But now there was nothing holding it back, and it roamed of its own free will, sticking up haphazardly just like it always had when he was a kid. He always loathed his hair.

His face was in no better condition. Though he had just slept, deep creases still formed under his eyes after all those years of unrest, no thanks to his insomnia. He never could sleep, or had a hard time falling asleep at least, but those bruises underneath his eyes could easily be covered with (and Tweek admits this was quite a bit of shame) makeup.

Makeup and hair gel. Those were his usual essentials to better his appearance, but both were no longer at his disposal, and it irked him to no end. Tweek wasn't exactly a vain person, but it helped to be a little on the attractive side in the harsh world he lived in. The fact that it hid his flaws made it all the bit better.

After all, he is the _perfect _son of the _perfect _owners of the _amazing _Tweak Bros. franchise; might as well play along.

Placing his forehead against the cool surface of the mirror, he closed his eyes and heaved a long sigh of exhaustion. His breath fanned out, fogging up the glass, and he opened his eyes again only to be met with his blood-shot reflection. It wasn't a pretty sight, but the heir reluctantly stepped away from it, doing everything in his right mind to keep from wanting to break the glass in half.

He hated his life. He hated himself.

He walked over to the shower in the corner of the vast bathroom, his bare feet curling at the toes due to the cold tiles on the floor. He stripped off the only piece of clothing he had left and turned on the shower to scathing hot. _Maybe I could burn to death_, he thought to himself.

He stepped in, the hot water causing him to hiss in pain, but he refused to cool it down. His hazel eyes watched as the water washed the stains from his hair, streaming down into the drain, tainted red with blood. Any other day, he would've relished in the soothing, almost excruciating, feel of the hot shower and steam. But how could he? For only a wall and a door stood between him and his possible death.

* * *

_That asshole didn't give me any clothes._

That was Tweek's first thought as he stepped out of the shower. (That and _where the hell is the damn towels in this place?_) He stood in the doorway of the bathroom awkwardly, a hand holding up a towel around his waist. He contemplated whether or not he should grab something from the drawers in the bedroom or just walk out and demand for his clothes back. Either situation seemed awkward to him: Walk out to greet his murderer in his clothes, or walk out naked and ask for his own back? Yeah, he didn't seem to like his choices. But how else was he to get clothed? Reluctantly, the heir walked out into the living room, his hand clenching tightly at the towel.

The man was sprawled out casually on the couch, his eyes trained on the flat screen across from him. He was still shirtless, much to Tweek's discomfort, and he cleared his throat to catch his attention.

"Uh, can I maybe get my clothes back now?" he asked feebly when grey eyes turned to look at him. He shifted from one foot to the other as he felt the assassin's gaze roam over his still-wet body, scrutinizing him in silence. Tweek nervously ran his fingers through his wet locks, wondering why this guy was just watching him. Was he planning on ways to murder him after their supposed "talk?" He shuddered at the thought.

After another beat of awkward silence (at least, awkward on Tweek's part), the man finally answered. "They're still drying. Just take something of mine in the drawers." Tweek must've made a sudden face at the suggestion because next he said, "Don't worry. They're blood-free."

If that was supposed to reassure him, it sure as hell didn't.

Nevertheless, Tweek walked back into the bedroom, mumbling incoherent words to himself. He hesitantly rummaged through the drawers, unsure of what he was going to find.

_What if there's a gun somewhere? Oh fuck, what if this is all just a ploy to distract me and he's actually behind me, ready to kill me off?_

With his paranoid thoughts racing through his mind, he quickly shot a glance over his shoulder, half expecting to see the man's face and a knife coming down on his throat. He sighed in relief when there was nothing.

Reaching the very bottom of the drawer, he was glad to find an old pair of grey sweatpants lying there, seemingly unforgotten under all the other garments of black slacks and jeans. Grabbing them, he quickly sliped them over his slender legs, completely ignoring the fact that he had left his boxer-briefs carelessly strewn on the bathroom floor. He decided pants were clothes enough. He didn't want this guy's entire apparel on him, especially since he could've easily killed someone in any of these outfits. He slinked out of the room and walked near to where his "host" sat, still in the same position as he had left him: staring at the TV.

For a moment, the heir just stood there, eyes shifting here and there, unsure of what to do as the man seemed to ignore his presence completely. He seemed enraptured in the screen, a single hand placed precariously on his chin, but when Tweek's eyes flicked towards it, he realized it was completely black.

No wonder he didn't hear any sounds coming from it.

His brows scrunched together. "What the heck are you doing staring at a blank screen?" he questioned, genuinely curious. The man's eyes glanced at him while the rest of his body stayed unmoving, and Tweek visibly tensed under his gaze.

"I'm thinking."

"And that involves staring blankly at the TV?"

"Yes."

He had said it so stern and so seriously that Tweek was almost taken aback just the slightest.

Silence befell over the two again, and the blonde prayed he wasn't shaking. He felt nervous, anxious really, to be in the same room with the guy who had murdered his whole party, but he didn't dare show it. It'd be a weakness, and murderers can sense fear.

The sound of a throat clearing caught his attention, and he stared as the other stood up. "Might as well introduce myself like a good host should," he spoke, wearing a sarcastic smile. He didn't show his teeth, Tweek noticed. He slowly stepped over towards him, and the blond instinctively took a step back. Seeing this, the man stopped and, at his safe distance of just a few steps, stretched out his arm, still giving him that smug grin of his.

"I'm Craig Tucker," he remarked. "And I was sent to assassinate you."

* * *

**A/N: **Wow, hi guys I didn't abandon this after the prologue I swear I'm still here. So sorry to leave you all waiting after all those months. I have the whole story in my head, but it's the getting it in words that I have a problem with (doesn't everybody?). But yeah, I apologize and hopefully I get the next part up a lot faster than this one. And thanks for the positive feedback! It's nice to know people enjoy it so far. I needed that encouragement c: And again, any constructive criticism is welcome! Trust me, I know I'm not the best writer out there.

Not much has happened in this chapter, but there will be more in the next. (Oh trust me, there definitely will.) And another character will be entering the story, hurrah. Also, you guys get to delve in on their lives a little more hopefully in the next chapter, since they're not exactly well explained at all just yet.

Anyways, thanks for sticking around you guys! And again, constructive criticism is always a help c:

P.S. Sorry if this seems slightly rushed. It really was... ;-;

* * *

**Preview for Ch 2**

The blonde merely began trembling in place. His hazel eyes shifted everywhere, and for a moment, Craig thought he was going to cry. But Tweek just sighed and closed his eyes in exasperation. "What favor?"

"Simple." Another sip of vodka. "I need your help to kill a man."


End file.
